Slipping Through My Fingers
by MintoKitsune
Summary: When John Watson gets a text from his dead best friend, things go horrible wrong. Can it really be Sherlock? Post-Reichenbach.


**Hey guys, this story is a bit different from the others, so I have a bit of a disclaimer for you. I didn't write the entire fanfic this time. I continued it for a friend, who's fanfiction is kissogram-4-watson. She is who you have to thank for this wonderful story, really, so go check out her stuff when you're done reading it! -Minto**

* * *

"I'm not dead, let's have dinner. –SH"

John sat in his squashy armchair with his chin resting on his interwoven hands. He was staring at the phone on the table, and his face, to a stranger, would have seemed calm, but to anyone who knew him; he was tense.

Neither his life-tired face, nor his weary stance betrayed any of the emotions rolling through his mind and heart like waves. It was his age-old eyes that shone with two of his strongest feelings: red-hot fury, and his old love resurfacing through the wounds of the past.

"John, I bought milk! Oh… what's wrong?"

Mary, his girlfriend of sorts, bustled through the kitchen door. Glancing past the kitchen and into the living room, barely stopping herself from glaring at the yellow graffiti on the old wallpaper, the antlers, and the skull on the mantelpiece. Her gaze settled on the ex-army man and a mothering concern spread through her body.

"Leave."

He hadn't looked at her, and he hadn't moved, but the harshness and indifference of his speech made her freeze in her quest to unpack the groceries.

"Wh…What?"

She'd never heard such sharpness from him. Sure, he could be a little distant, and he never spoke of the year or so before they met, and he wouldn't let her redecorate his _awful_ flat, but he'd never been anything but gentle. In fact, most of the time he treated her as though he could lose her any day.

"Just leave…please."

His slow intake, only meant to steady him, scared her more. His feathery plead made her mind jolt into action, and her hands drop to her side. She stared at him until she realized that nothing more would be said. She turned to leave dazedly.

"Oh, uh… I'll just leave the groceries… there I guess."

The door closed behind her with the usual thump, and her footfalls echoed on the stairs. When the front door finally clicked shut behind her, closing out the sounds of Baker Street, John leaned back and sighed. He closed his eyes and tried thinking of everything but the camera phone in front of him.

It might have been minutes, or hours later, when the phone played it's generic tune.

Absolute silence rang through the apartment. With Mrs Hudson away on holiday in Spain, John was the only one staying in 221B.

It took the doctor a while to work up the courage to even check his phone.

"6pm, black cab in front of the café, don't ask questions. Bring cluedo. –SH"

John looked up at the large clock resting on the antlers. He sighed and leaned back against his seat again, closing his eyes, and placing his hands over his face.

Rising from his chair, he threw the phone on the seat opposite, and limped over to the first of the two bedrooms. He stood in the doorway as he tried to imagine its former occupant. He could remember every feature, every movement, and every gesture of the man. The ex-officer could still see him in his mind's eye.

The room, kept the same for these past years, no longer smelt of him, but John could still remember that specific scent. He had spent days in this room, dredging up every memory he could and preserving it. Now they flashed through his mind in a blur.

When the memories began to repeat themselves, John knew he could hold it off no longer. Whoever had sent this text was going to soon regret it. John just couldn't believe it was real, though part of him desperately wished that it was.

Quickly, so he couldn't change his mind, John limped to his cane, using it to support himself down the stairs. He didn't even bother grabbing his coat, though it was lightly snowing.

With one last fleeting glance at the clock, he slammed the door shut.

* * *

It was mid-december, so near six o'clock, it had already become dark. The cafe was bustling with customers, looking very warm and welcome compared to the chill that John had to face.

Goosebumps were rising on his arms and he had to rub them through his jumper to keep them warm.

At promptly six o'clock a black cap pulled in front of the cafe and John stepped forwards blindly. It felt like everything was slowing down as his vision blurred. It seemed to take hours to approach the care, but he was soon snapped out of his daze when a man on a bicycle swerved to avoid hitting him.

"Watch it, Jackass!"

The man shouted, as John stood there to gather his wits. Of course, by the time reality had settled in, the man was far off and the car was only meters away. It took no effort to reach out, open the door, and stumble into the car.

The first thing he noticed was that he was alone, if you didn't include the driver, which John didn't. For a second, he thought he was in the wrong vehicle, but before he could say anything, the cab pulled away from the curb and drove into the night.

For a few seconds, John thought he recognized the rat-faced cabbie, but said nothing of it. This man was probably just hired by someone who enjoyed a cruel joke. He was actually more interested in where they were headed, and was quite surprised to see them pull right in front of a local Chinese restaurant. In the window he could see a lucky cat, much like the one he had at home.

He climbed out of the cab, which promptly sped away before he could even reach into his pocket for money.

Still, he had his mind elsewhere and couldn't be bothered to care much if the cab driver got paid or not. He was more concerned with who he was going to meet in the restaurant.

When he stepped inside, he didn't pay attention to the warm gust of air, or the clattering of other people eating. He didn't pay attention to the waiter, who was trying to take him to a seat, either. Instead, he was looking around for someone he would recognize.

Multiple faces flashed through his mind, though he wondered if any of them were actually capable of doing this. He had thought of Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, and two people who were presumably dead (Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty). The one person he didn't expect to see was, in fact, the man he was supposed to be meeting.

Yet, when he found the man who had sent the text (for it was, indeed, a male) all his expectations (or lack of) crumbled. Sitting across the restaurant was Sherlock Holmes.

He had the same unruly black hair, sharp cheekbones, and bright blue eyes. It was like he hadn't changed at all. It was like John was seeing a ghost.

In the few seconds it took John to cross over to Sherlock, he had thought of every fowl thing he could say, every action he could perform. He contemplated on whether he should punch Sherlock, or hug him; whether he should whisper, or raise his voice.

When he actually reached the table, though, he did none of those things. Instead, he sat down wearily, without a word.

It was as if his senses had become enhanced as he stared at Sherlock. The voices that were echoing around him became too deafening to block out, and he began to hear bits and parts of conversations he didn't care about.

"You're so stupid!"

Said one girl, who had playfully smacked her boyfriend. She was giggling in such an annoying manner, that put John off in ways he couldn't explain.

"Daddy's had enough now."

The mother across the way spoke in a stern voice, removing her child off of her husband's lap.

"John."

This last one alerted John out of his trance, causing him to lock eyes wit the very man who spoke; Sherlock Holmes.

Nothing really had changed about him... Except for his voice. When it was once very warm and strong, it was now cold and slimy like a snake. It sent a shiver up John's spine.

John didn't know how to respond to that, so he stayed silent while he stared at Sherlock. Finally though, he found something to say.

"Sherlock."

His voice was cracked, silent, and breathless, and the pain and need in it were clear enough for any man, let alone the one across the table.

"You got my message."

It was a simple enough statement, but Sherlock usually wasn't one to state the obvious. Again, John was at a loss for words. After all, what did you say to the man who had no only been your best friend, but your _dead_ best friend, for over two years?

It was Sherlock, again, who broke the silence.

"So, how are you?"

This was when John started to feel that something was wrong. This couldn't have been the Sherlock he knew. John's pain was obvious to any random onlooker. Sherlock should have known instantly how he was doing.

Immediately, John's face grew into one of anger, as he formed a furious question.

"Who-"

But he was cut off, by someone he believed to be an imposter.

"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't."

This was when everything went wrong. Sherlock started to change; to morph.

It started with his voice. He hadn't even finished his sentence when his words began to sound like James Moriarty.

His eyes were the next to go, and it was just as bad. They went from a startling shade of blue, to a deep, glaring red.

The rest of his features followed quickly as his whole face squished in, except for his nose, which protruded and connected to the mouth. Floppy ears grew into his head while his hair grew back in, and fur extended all over his face and body. His clothes were shredded as he completed the change into a large dog, with the voice of a devil.

It opened it's mouth, as if to growl, but with the same voice as Jim Moriarty, it spoke.

"I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

Everything in John's peripheral view ignited into flames, including the dog. He was rooted to his seat in fear. Still, the voice continued to ring out.

"I will find you, and I will _skin you._"

It was then, as that voice spoke, that John awoke with a heart-shattering scream. Sweat clung to his shaking body and he had a difficult time regaining his breath. Over and over again, he kept muttering to himself. It was just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream...

His phone flashed, and he jumped. It had alerted him to his surroundings, and he found that he had fallen asleep in his chair and it was now past ten o'clock. The message on the phone was from his girlfriend, Mary, who was telling him she loved him.

He sighed.

Mary didn't deserve him. She loved him so much and he was still having constant nightmares about the man he loved. It was unfair, but also clear as to what he should do.

He started to type out a message to her. It read,

"Mary, you have done so much for me these past few years. I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing I'd like you to do for me. Mary, will you marry me?"

He pressed the send button and closed his eyes. He already knew her answer. She had been waiting for this question for a long time, and even though John wasn't as smart as Sherlock, he knew how she would respond.

When his phone let out its familiar tune, he opened his eyes.

His heart stopped.

"Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH"

Before he could take another breath, the front door opened. And then shut.

* * *

**I hope you guys enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews would be much appreciated!**


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